


you pour and I'll say stop

by mxingno



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Closeted Character, F/F, Gender or Sex Swap, Unreliable Narrator, big feelings (implied), everyone is lesbians
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-11-04 21:56:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10999788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mxingno/pseuds/mxingno
Summary: They make more money than they’ve ever made. Denise’s tips don’t even fit in her wallet. There’s something to this scheme, she thinks, no matter what it is that Dee’s found to grouse about. Scamming lesbians is absolutely the best business model they’ve ever produced.(A 100% all-lesbian re-imagining of S1E1.)





	you pour and I'll say stop

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mybffwonderwoman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mybffwonderwoman/gifts).



> Content warnings, first, for canon-typical body-shaming, generally unpleasant language, and bad bad practice on the theme of consent (there is no sexual content in this fic, and nothing non-consensual happens outright).
> 
> I have deliberately kept this fic ambiguous as to whether or not the Gang is 75% trans, or whether this is an alternate universe starring exclusively cis women. Whatever you think is probably true, I guess?
> 
> Title is from 'LA Hallucinations' by noted gay icon Carly Rae Jepsen. Mad gratitudes to AO3 user underwooding for the beta.

Dee’s hot friend starts it, and Denise’s (frankly, incredible) body keeps it alive past the first night. Who knew the lesbian population of South Philly would be so desperate for a bar that’s all the way theirs? They’re packed in like sardines, dancing by the jukebox, crowding the bar. And sure, Paddy’s Irish Pub has been scraping by for years, ever since they moved in and nearly killed Charlie trying to get the pool table in through the alley. But they’ve never been busy like this. They’ve never had so many customers who actually seem like they’re having an acceptable time.

Mac’s sulking in the back office, obviously, like a goddamn child. Every so often she sticks her head out the door, so she can sigh and grimace and generally make her displeasure felt. Whatever. She’d fit right in with this crowd if she just _owned_ it, for once in her squalid little life. Like Charlie! Mac, too, could be surrounded by chicks in flannel and snapbacks cooing over her godawful sense of style and personal hygiene, if she got the fuck over herself and just came out.

Not Denise, though -- Denise is _killing_ it, working a tight-fitting tank and her skinniest jeans, dollar bills spilling through her fingers as Dee gets more and more pissed off at the other end of the bar. “Girls are out tonight, huh?” she croons, and Dee rolls her eyes like she’s having a seizure, if no tips and unbearable jealousy could give people seizures -- and hey, who is Denise to say they can’t? She’s on fire, she’s golden, all their eyes like spotlights as she makes a dance out of pouring their drinks. She’s a goddess and they’re all here to worship, and that’s the joke, that’s the funniest thing of all, the way they’re lavishing her with praise and attention and crumpled green bills; they don’t even know she’s _straight_.

They make more money than they’ve ever made. Denise’s tips don’t even fit in her wallet. There’s something to this scheme, she thinks, no matter what it is that Dee’s found to grouse about. Scamming lesbians is absolutely the best business model they’ve ever produced.

* * *

They get mimosas for lunch, because Dee’s been rewatching Sex and the fucking City and apparently mimosas are a big part of spending time with your girls. “See, the problem,” says Mac, “is that none of us are your girls, because nobody likes you and you’re gonna die alone.” Nobody disagrees. Still, it’s been a long couple of days. Nobody’s about to turn down booze.

The subject under discussion is, ostensibly, their unexpected transformation into a lesbian hotspot. In practice, Charlie’s basically plugged out, because the coffee-shop waitress she thinks is so hot is within ten feet of her and so she’s got to focus on her creepy staring technique while the staring’s good. Dee’s using her air-time to yell about how much better at bartending she is is than Denise. The only people actually talking about lesbians are Denise and Mac, and Mac is being typically Catholic-schoolgirl about the whole idea.

“It absolutely _is_ a sin,” she snaps, jaw set. “It’s in the Bible, Den, it’s literally right there -- not only is gay sex a big old _no_ from the guy upstairs, but that… that _prancing_ you were doing last night? That is not what Jesus wants for women, Denise. Especially not in front of other women, for money.”

“Please,” says Denise, dripping with scorn. “You’re hardly some kind of Biblical model of womanhood, yourself. Or is Jesus totally down with fighting and drinking now? Has He forgiven you your cooking?”

Mac’s face gets hot. It’s only because she knows Denise is right; she’s a mess, and not even a hot one. There’s a ketchup stain on her shirt that’s been there for at least a week, and which Denise knows was a direct result of trying to suck off a street-vendor hot dog, no matter how furiously Mac denies it. As though she could ever practice enough to stop fucking hating anything to do with dick.

“At least I’m working on myself, Denise,” she says, which is a blatant goddamn lie, and a condescending one at that. “I’m gonna turn it around, okay? I’m gonna get good at cooking, and I’m gonna confess on all the fighting and shit, and I’m gonna be _fine_. Unlike you. You’re definitely going straight to hell.”

Same old, same fucking old. Denise doesn’t even dignify it with an answer; it’s getting to the point where it’s not even fun anymore, prodding and prodding until Mac inevitably, clumsily lashes out. She just sips her mimosa, which is mostly just mixer. She and Charlie have the vote in the bag. There’s years and years of tips and applause in her future -- and fun, more to the point. More fun than she’s had in forever. Mac will just have to fucking deal.

* * *

It takes a surprisingly short time for Mac to come around. Not come _out_ , not exactly. But she grabs Denise by the arm as they’re getting ready to lock up, produces a bottle of cheap tequila from behind her back. It’s not the apology Denise deserves, but again: no way in hell is she turning down a drink.

Denise is sweaty and tousled from a long night behind the bar, hair sticking to her forehead, tank top clinging to her skin. Mac’s watching her too closely; she can deny it all she wants, but Denise knows. Denise has always known. And sure, it’s sweet as hell to get an audience every night at the bar. It’s the kind of thing she could do for the rest of her life, or at least for as long as she’s hot enough for anyone to give a shit -- same difference, really, if you think about it. But there’s something way more intense about watching Mac watching her, between what’s _got_ to be a deliberate effort to fuck up her shots. Her heart’s a bassline shaking her chest.

“Oh my god, Mac,” she says, and she can hear the slur in her voice. “Oh my god, you have to listen to me, please, you gotta listen…”

“No, no, I get it!” Mac insists, and grabs the goddamn lime wedge. “I get it, Den -- lime first, right? And then the salt, and then--”

And then she’s waking up on the floor of the back office, and her back doesn’t hurt _quite_ as badly as everything north of her neck, but it’s a close fucking call. She can hear Dee outside, yelling at Mac, who is obviously doing her goddamn best to yell back; it’s going through her the way sirens go through her, or buzzers. Could’ve been worse, she tells herself, as she hooks her fingers over the edge of the desk and tries to haul herself up to her feet. Could’ve been worse. She could’ve woken up in bed with some disgusting barfly, with a flabby body and an overactive sweat gland. He could’ve been _snoring._ At least Mac didn’t let her leave on her own.

Mac looks faintly guilty when Denise emerges, feeling like a corpse that crawled out of its grave. Good. Wrecking Denise’s shit like that -- a little guilt is the absolute bare _minimum_ she deserves.

* * *

“Wait,” says Charlie, “wait, wait. Weren’t you gonna be late in today, or something?”

Denise has showered and dressed and driven back to the bar, having pounded some of Mac’s painkiller stash on the way out the door. None of this preparation has done a goddamn thing for her patience. “And why would I be late, Charlie? It takes more than a tequila hangover to keep me out of work, goddamn it, you _know_ that--”

Charlie has the nerve to laugh at her. “Oh, wow, that’s a funny joke. But seriously, Dee definitely said you’d be late. Something about stone bunches? I don’t even know, man, she’s so full of shit sometimes. Like, bunches of _what_?”

She wanders off to the bathroom before Denise can summon up a reaction. If it were Mac, she’d be yelling, _don’t walk away from me, you asshole_ \-- but it isn’t Mac, and so it’s hard to give a shit. For the moment, she’s got a fucking nightmare of a twin sister to interrogate.

Dee’s in the back office, applying her makeup, intent on her own reflection in the dusty computer screen. Her hand slips when she sees Denise, leaving mascara streaked across the side of her face. Idiot. “All right, bitch,” says Denise, and maybe it’s the rough edges the tequila has left on her voice, but Dee looks genuinely nervous. “Talk.”

“It’s Mac’s fault,” says Dee, too quickly. “Okay? She was meant to make sure you didn’t get locked in the bar.”

It’s too easy to trap her, and it always has been. “Except I just spoke to Charlie,” says Denise, “who seemed to remember you telling her I’d be late. So don’t _bullshit_ me, sis. This whole thing has your fingerprints all over it.”

It never gets old, watching her squirm. “Jesus Christ,” says Dee, and runs a hand back through her hair. “You goddamn bitch. Like, what do you expect, at this point? You keep acting like you’re hot shit, ordering us around, pulling stunts like this goddamn gay-bar scam -- I was gonna pay Mac to get you drunk and send you home with some _actual_ lesbians, okay? Because you’re full of shit and I hate you.”

Denise feels her eyebrows going up, up. “You were going to pay Mac,” she says. “To get me drunk. And send me home with -- wait. With stone butches?”

“And it would’ve worked,” snaps Dee; it’s gratifying to see how ugly she looks when she’s mad, her eyes bugging out of her head, her lips pressed together until they almost don’t exist. “It would’ve goddamn worked, because you don’t follow through, Denise. You never do! Oh, sure, it’s _super_ cool to flirt with girls when they’re giving you money and telling you you’re cute, but if you woke up in bed with one? This whole gay bar scam would’ve been done like _that._ Mac’s such a pussy, I swear to god.”

Which means Mac bottled it. Or -- no. Specifically, it means Mac couldn’t follow through on shoving Denise into a _really_ ill-advised sexual adventure while blackout drunk. It means Mac was looking at Denise in ways she’d never in a million years admit. _Worth it,_ thinks Denise -- because, well, she’s not gay, but what kind of dumbass would turn down a captive audience?

They call an impromptu business meeting, take another vote -- but not before Charlie’s distributed last night’s money equally between them, or before Dee’s teared up a little at the sheer amount of cash in her hands. “Come on, Dee,” Charlie says. Whines, really, but Denise isn’t going to complain if it works. “Please? We’re gonna make even more than this if Janelle keeps it up, you know we are, just think how many dumb nail extensions you could get--”

It’s a yes. Not least because Dee can’t even begin to handle Charlie’s goddamn puppydog eyes; Denise doesn’t give a shit about anything her sister does, that’s a given, but she’s not _blind_. By way of celebration, she gets right back in the car, drives back to the apartment, and collapses into bed. If Dee wants attention, she can goddamn try to earn it.

* * *

They don’t talk about the stone butches. It’s movie night. All hostilities are suspended on movie night, in favour of other people’s hostilities on the TV screen.

Mac dumps like three bags of popcorn into a bowl, fetches a six-pack each from the fridge. “ _Predator_ or _Fast and Furious_?” yells Denise, from the couch, but obviously it’s _Predator_ , because it’s basically always _Predator._ It’s just another Mac-and-Denise domestic ritual: they’ll turn the volume loud enough to irritate the neighbours, and sit through a solid hour and a half of Mac passing comment on all the dudes’ physiques. She’s running out of things to say, at this point, but that’s fine. It’s fun, even, from where Denise is sitting. There’s something compelling about watching the desperation mount, like setting a fire in the park, watching the grass shrivel and curl in the flame.

Except that Mac doesn’t say a goddamn thing about pecs or glutes all night. She crushes her share of the beer, can after can, gaze fixed unmoving on the screen. “What’s gotten into you?” asks Denise, after her own third beer of the evening. “Do you not give a shit about _Predator_ now, or something?” -- but Mac just shrugs, giving her nothing. Well. Whatever. Denise can guess what’s up, regardless.

It’s not _not_ a hostility, when she leans up against Mac’s side and rests her head decisively on her shoulder. It sure as hell doesn’t mean anything. But Mac doesn’t shrug her off, and like hell is she going to be the first one to crack.


End file.
